


Happy Birthday

by platonic_boner



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Crack, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Magic Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7889293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonic_boner/pseuds/platonic_boner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Arthur celebrates Merlin’s birthday, and one time he actually celebrates it <em>on</em> Merlin’s birthday. (Arthur is a prat.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwordRunner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwordRunner/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Maddy!
> 
> Translation into Chinese done by [kimerufuji](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kimerufuji) and available [here](http://www.alandofmyth.com/thread-619-1-1.html).

ONE

“What do you mean, you don’t know when your birthday is?” Arthur says. 

It’s the day after Arthur’s birthday. Merlin is sorting through the piles of presents Arthur received, while Arthur lounges on his bed and gives him directions. (Including things like “Re-gift that to Morgana,” and “Feed that to the pigs.” Arthur is a very gracious and grateful person.)

“I know when my birthday is,” Merlin says. He takes a closer look at the box of sweets and puts it in the things-Merlin-is-stealing-from-Arthur pile instead of the pig pile. “It’s at the beginning of spring.”

“But you don’t actually know the _date_ ,” Arthur says. “How?”

“Not all of us had royal scribes recording the day of their birth,” Merlin snaps. “It doesn’t mean my birthday is any less legitimate.”

“Yes, it does. If you don’t know when your birthday _actually_ is, Merlin, I might as well give you presents on _any_ day of the year,” Arthur says. 

Arthur gets off his bed and walks to his wardrobe, and then Merlin’s counterargument is rudely interrupted by Arthur throwing something at his head. Fabric envelopes him and a fraying edge fills his mouth. Merlin yanks it off and spits out the threads, then examines it. It’s thick red fabric with a huge golden embroidery: Arthur’s knight’s cloak. Well, Arthur’s _old_ one - Uther gifted him with a new one yesterday.

“Happy birthday,” Arthur says, smirking.

Merlin decides not to argue: it’s very nice and soft. He adds it to the Merlin pile.

 

TWO

Merlin’s next “birthday” takes place a little over half a year after the first. It’s also a week after Merlin’s left shoulder was badly injured in an encounter with some bandits. Arthur and dumb luck are the only reason it was Merlin’s shoulder, rather than his head, that got smashed with a bandit’s club. 

It’s Merlin’s first day back to work - Gaius refused to let him carry anything for a week, and Arthur had asked what good Merlin was to him in that case, and sent him away. Arthur groans when Merlin wakes him up.

“Normally I’d throw something at you for being so annoying this early in the morning,” Arthur says, but instead he covers his head with a pillow.

“What makes today so unusual, sire?” Merlin asks, opening the curtains before making his way to Arthur’s bed.

“Well, I can hardly abuse you on your _birthday_ ,” Arthur says.

Merlin grabs one of Arthur’s pillows and smacks him with it, as hard as one can possibly smack a person with a very fluffy pillow and only one and a half good arms.

“It is not my birthday,” Merlin snaps.

Arthur emerges from under his pillows and blankets to smirk evilly at Merlin. “So you don’t want your present?” 

That makes Merlin pause. While it’s slightly infuriating that Arthur has decided to assign Merlin a random birthday, again, due to his insistence that Merlin’s birthday isn’t real just because a royal scribe didn’t record it, Merlin likes presents. He’s treasured the cloak Arthur gave him for his last birthday - it makes for a warm blanket on cold winter nights, and a warm reminder of the prince’s regard the rest of the time.

“What’s my present?” he asks.

Arthur laughs and crosses the room to his wardrobe. He takes out a long package and hands it to Merlin. “Careful,” he says, and Merlin can tell why without needing to unwrap it: it’s a sword.

“It’s a sword,” Merlin says. Arthur doesn’t respond, just waiting, so Merlin removes the cloth around it.

Merlin doesn’t know much about swords, other than what he’s gleaned during the time he’s spent polishing them. He can tell it’s a fairly plain sword, as swords go; the sort that a peasant could carry without being questioned about who he’d stolen it from. It’s also slightly smaller and lighter than Arthur’s sword. Merlin could wield it easily.

He experimentally stabs the sword through the air, trying to imitate a lunge he’s seen Arthur do.

Arthur had ducked behind his dressing screen with his clothes for the day while Merlin was examining the sword. He steps out just as Merlin is lunging, and just in time to see Merlin somehow go sprawling across the floor.

Arthur bursts into laughter. “You’ll have to work on that.”

Merlin looks up at Arthur. “You want me to learn to use a sword?”

“I’m going to teach you to use a sword, so that what happened last week never happens again.” Arthur offers a hand and pulls Merlin to his feet, then clarifies brusquely, “I can’t keep risking my neck for yours whenever you trip over your own feet.”

“How very kind of you to say, sire,” Merlin says. “On my birthday, too.” 

Arthur grins at him. “Ready to go try out your present?”

“Wha-no,” Merlin says, as Arthur grabs his own sword. “No, absolutely not. No!” he yells, even as Arthur grabs him and drags him towards the practice courts.

 

THREE

The next time, it actually _is_ spring when Arthur decides to celebrate Merlin’s birthday.

The knights are teasing Merlin on a patrol through the woods. Merlin was cleaning his neckerchief in a river when one of the knights snatched it away, and now they’re playing keep-away with Merlin’s scarf. 

“Hey,” Arthur says. He catches the neckerchief as it goes flying between Percival and Gwaine, and bestows it upon Merlin. He then turns to the knights and says, “Be nice to him, it’s his birthday.”

“What?” Merlin says, startled. “My birthday was three months ago.” It _was_ \- it’s been three months since Arthur gave him his last present. 

Arthur laughs. “What are you talking about, Merlin? You told me your birthday is in the spring. Isn’t that right?”

“Well, yes, but -”

“So it definitely wasn’t three months ago,” Arthur says, like he’s trying to make Merlin see reason, when he’s the one who insisted on celebrating Merlin’s birthday then.

Merlin is about to tell him off for being a prat, but then he notices the knights watching them. They look slightly confused but also like they think Merlin is perhaps losing it. Merlin huffs and storms off, taking care to “accidentally” stomp on Arthur’s foot on the way by.

***

That evening, back in Camelot, Gwaine drags Merlin to the tavern. He does it often enough that Merlin isn’t suspicious, until he walks into a gathering of knights yelling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.” Arthur’s lounging at the back of the table, his shit-eating grin stretching from ear to ear.

The knights ply Merlin with ale and what are clearly very hastily acquired presents, and toast to his health.

Merlin manages to squeeze through them enough to reach Arthur’s side and talk to Arthur quietly. 

“You’re a prat,” he says. “But thank you.”

“I didn’t even give you your present yet,” Arthur says.

“Oh,” Merlin says, surprised. “I thought the party _was_ my present. Or that you wouldn’t _give_ me a present, since you gave me one a couple months ago.”

“Oh, right, on your real birthday,” Arthur says, and then catches Merlin’s fist before it lands. “Hey, watch it, I can’t be seen letting peasants assault me.”

Merlin grins and asks, “So, where’s my present?”

“The stables.”

“...You’re giving me a horse?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m _lending_ you a horse, and giving you a week off, so you can go visit your mother. I suppose I’ll-”

Merlin cuts Arthur off by hugging him. (Normally, Arthur would block Merlin from such an obscene act, especially in public, and he does try. However, he’s impeded because he’s still holding Merlin’s hand.)

“Get off of me,” Arthur grumbles.

Merlin gets off of him when he’s good and ready. Arthur’s face is flushed pink - he’s clearly embarrassed by how pleased he is.

“It’s really a present to me,” Arthur says, to make up for the hug. “So I can have a competent servant for a little while.”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. “I remember how well you and George get along.”

“Exactly,” Arthur says.

 

FOUR

Merlin doesn’t expect to have a birthday in the year after Uther’s death. All year long, Arthur is overwhelmed with grief and with learning how to govern Camelot. Inventing a birthday to annoy and/or please his manservant is probably the last thing on his mind, Merlin thinks.

Merlin is wrong. One night during the first winter after Uther’s death, Arthur summons Merlin to his chambers. It’s at a particularly stressful time. Arthur sentenced someone to death for treason just a few days before - it was deserved, but Merlin knows he’s still upset about it. Neither of them is getting much sleep, between Arthur’s worries, Merlin’s (official and unofficial) work, and all the speeches that needed to be written. But as soon as Merlin enters Arthur’s chambers, he realizes that work isn’t what Arthur has summoned him for.

Arthur’s pulled two chairs in front of his fireplace, and he gestures for Merlin to take the chair next to him. “Happy birthday,” he says, staring into the flames. He can’t quite work up a smile – it’s been awhile since Merlin last saw Arthur give a _real_ smile.

“Arthur, you really don’t have to do this,” Merlin says softly, not taking the seat. “I don’t think either of us is in the mood to celebrate.”

“What about the mood to eat cake and get extremely drunk?” Arthur asks the fire.

The flames light up Arthur’s blond hair and shine in his blue eyes. They make him look even more beautiful than usual, but they also highlight the worry lines creasing Arthur’s face. Merlin suppresses the not-unfamiliar urge to hug him, to wrap Arthur up in his arms and try his best to make Arthur feel like nothing can hurt him, just for a few minutes. Merlin can think of nothing he wants more, but Arthur wouldn’t let him, so instead he drops into the chair beside Arthur and agrees, “I could manage that.”

There’s a knock at the door.

“Good,” Arthur says. “Because that’s the cake.”

Merlin starts to get up, but Arthur beats him to it and pushes him back down. “It’s your _birthday_ , Merlin, sit.”

Arthur opens the door for the servant, a young boy Merlin vaguely recognizes. He’s carrying a tray full of various cakes. To the boy’s obvious astonishment, the king helps him set the half-dozen small cakes down on a table, and then drag the table over between their two chairs.

“That’s all,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”

He closes the door behind the boy, then crosses the room to where he keeps his wine. He grabs two bottles in each hand and returns to Merlin.

“I’d get us goblets,” he says, “But that would just slow us down.”

“I think we should limit the time you spend with Gwaine,” Merlin teases, in an effort to lighten the mood.

He’s rewarded with one of Arthur’s grins, even if it’s a little forced. “I don’t think you want to get into an argument about which of us spends more time in the tavern, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin sputters an indignant denial, which only makes Arthur’s grin grow realer and fonder.

Arthur hands Merlin a bottle of Camelot’s finest wine. When Merlin fails to be able to open it, Arthur rolls his eyes and grabs it back, making some disparaging comment linking Merlin’s strength and women.

“I’m pretty sure some of the washerwomen could beat you in an arm wrestle,” Merlin comments.

Arthur doesn’t come back with a retort, even though Merlin knows once Arthur would’ve greatly enjoyed choosing from a multitude of replies ranging from joking that he didn’t think Merlin even _knew_ any women to putting Merlin in a headlock.

Teasing him clearly isn’t working, so Merlin thinks of how Arthur tends to cheer him up, on the few occasions that Merlin has been so down that Arthur has noticed and wanted to help. Arthur usually attacks him, instead of trying to make him talk about his feelings or anything.

Merlin picks up a cake in his fingers.

“There are forks, peasant,” Arthur says lazily.

“Yes,” Merlin says, and grins evilly. “But forks are for eating with.”

Arthur sits up straight, battle-ready. “If you shove cake in my face, you’ll be in the stocks for the rest of the week.”

“I’m not going to,” Merlin decides, “But only because these look too delicious to waste on the likes of _you_. Not because your threats scare me.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself,” Arthur says, finally grinning his old, boyish grin.

Merlin shoves the cake in his mouth instead, nearly choking on it and spraying crumbs everywhere, to Arthur’s disgusted amusement. They split the remaining cakes in half and start eating them with their fingers, washing the cake down with wine. Merlin laughs at Arthur being covered with cake and wine. Arthur points out that Merlin is too, but Merlin claims he’s delighted because obviously the _king_ should be above making a huge mess like a small child. He’s secretly even more delighted that Arthur is acting so carefree.

The wine disappears before the cake does. 

“This icing is so sweet,” Merlin groans around a vanilla cake. “I need something to drink.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He’s much more lighthearted now he’s well on his way to being drunk. He accuses Merlin, “You just want more wine.”

“Maybe.” Merlin winks. Actually, Merlin tries to wink, but he’s a little too drunk to manage it, so he just blinks emphatically. He doesn’t think it gets the same point across.

Arthur sighs and gets to his feet, unsteadily. He nearly trips facefirst into the fire.

“If you fall and die,” Merlin says, “I’m telling everyone you appointed me your heir.”

Arthur has made it all the way to the wine cupboard without falling, but now faces the daunting task of returning to the fire with four more bottles in his hands. Merlin can see how the room is spinning and the floor is lurching, so he thinks he has a high probability of being crowned.

Arthur makes it, though. (Well, not quite all the way - he visibly decides the chair is too much of a challenge, and lies down on the furs in front of the fire instead.) Then he tells Merlin, “You couldn’t be king anyways. You’re too...skinny.”

Merlin roars with laughter. “If I were king, Arthur, I’d be just as fat as you.”

“I didn’t mean-” Arthur sulks until his eyes alight on the wine bottles he’s brought over. He offers a bottle to Merlin, but Merlin’s too far away from him to reach it, so he slides down onto the floor beside Arthur.

They open the wine.

Arthur proposes a toast: “To you, for managing - against all odds - to survive another year!”

They clink bottles, then both drink deeply. When they come up for air, Arthur holds up his bottle again and says, “To me, for not strangling you...yet!”

Arthur tacks on the “yet” just before taking a sip. Merlin has already gulped down some wine, and he spits it all over Arthur, who laughs uproariously before drinking himself.

Then, “And to your lovely mother Hunith,” Arthur continues, “For having the strength to bear her son in the cold of winter!”

Merlin drinks, but also kicks him in the shins.

“As it is your birthday,” Arthur says magnanimously, wiping his mouth, “I will pardon you for the treason you have just committed.”

Before long, they finish the wine, and then they fall asleep on the furs in front of the fire.

***

They’re woken by Leon - although it’s a wonder the sunlight streaming in didn’t wake them already. Merlin is sticky with cake and hungover from the wine, and very displeased to be awake, but he’s cozy and comfortable with Arthur curled around him.

“Sire?” Leon says, clearly trying to hide his surprise at how and where Arthur was sleeping. “You didn’t show up for morning practice, we were concerned -”

“Sir Leon,” Arthur says, very formally.

“Yes, sire?”

“Stop making such loud noises and get out.”

Leon bows his head and goes. Merlin can feel Arthur mirroring his own wince at the noise of the door closing. Merlin begins to wonder if he should go too, but before he can decide to move, Arthur’s arm tightens around his waist.

Merlin smiles and closes his eyes.

 

FIVE

During the second autumn of Arthur’s reign, when Merlin brings the king his breakfast, Arthur tells Merlin to take the day off. 

“For your birthday,” he adds.

Merlin throws his hands in the air, because this is getting _ridiculous_. “I know you heard me when I said I was born in the spring, Arthur!”

“Oh?” Arthur says. “So you _don’t_ want a day off? Well, I guess the stables could do with mucking out again…”

Merlin scowls. Then he snatches both sausages off Arthur’s breakfast plate, snaps that it’s his birthday when Arthur protests, and stomps away, chewing.

Unfortunately, Gaius has no respect for the royal decree that today is Merlin’s birthday. He rolls his eyes and gives Merlin a long list of tasks to do, mostly making various potions that Gaius is running low on. Merlin works all day long and is just finishing up when someone comes in. He doesn’t turn, assuming it’s just Gaius returning from wherever he’s been, until a familiar throat clears and Merlin turns to see the king.

“Happy birthday,” Arthur says, and throws a rolled-up parchment at Merlin.

Merlin fumbles it, drops it, and has to go scrambling around under the table to find where it rolled to, as Arthur snorts and mocks him. Merlin therefore has lots of time to wonder what it is. It’s very official-looking, with a royal seal and the highest quality of parchment. Has Arthur granted him land or a title? He wouldn’t, would he? Merlin does not have time to be a lord.

Merlin unrolls the parchment and nearly drops it within reading a few words. He can feel the blood draining from his face. It’s a new law about magic in Camelot, and all he can think is, _Arthur knows_. He reads further so desperately quickly that he doesn’t actually absorb any of the words. It therefore takes him a few minutes to realize exactly what he’s holding: a repeal of the ban on magic.

Merlin sits down quickly. He reads the decree over and over again. He’s scared to look at Arthur, even when Arthur comes closer and sits down on the bench next to him.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, and he sounds nervous too. “Do you - um. Do you like your present?”

“Yes.” Merlin finally meets Arthur’s eyes. “Yes, Arthur, _thank you_.”

“No, Merlin, thank _you_. I don’t know everything you’ve done, but I know you’ve been protecting me, and that you’ve saved my life more times than I know. I don’t want you to have any doubt that your loyalty and your friendship are valued and returned,” Arthur says, tapping the parchment that Merlin is still clutching tightly. “And I don’t want to cut off your head, either. Well, not most days, anyways.”

Merlin launches himself at Arthur, who actually returns the hug for a split second before dumping Merlin onto the floor.

“I don’t care if it _is_ your birthday, you’re not getting away with that again.”

Merlin beams up at him anyways. Arthur _knows_ and he’s still looking at Merlin the same way. He’s finally discovered who Merlin truly is, and accepted him.

Merlin thinks it’s the best present Arthur could possibly have given him. 

 

PLUS ONE

Merlin doesn’t know the actual date of his birthday, but he still knows when to celebrate every year. The day the bluebells begin to bloom has always been Merlin’s birthday, not that he’s told Arthur that. (He can only imagine the mocking.) It’s Merlin’s birthday when Arthur ignores the state clothes Merlin sets out in favour of riding clothes, and orders Merlin to saddle their horses.

“Sire,” Merlin says, in exasperation, “You have that speech to make to the merchants, and Sir Leon wanted to talk to you about changing the patrols, and one of the northern lords wants to speak with you-”

“The one with the incompetent oaf of a son he wants me to knight?”

“No,” Merlin says. “Nothing like that.” 

It’s actually worse than that, but Arthur doesn’t need to know these things.

Arthur sees through him, though. “It’s the one with the daughter he wants me to marry, isn’t it? Now I’m _definitely_ leaving.”

“ _Sire_ ,” Merlin all but whines. _Why_ must Arthur be so impossible?

“Merlin, nobody is going to put you in the stocks because I went missing, and you know Sir Leon will take care of everything. Maybe he’ll even like the daughter.”

Merlin and Arthur share a look of disgust at this prospect, but then Merlin is back to badgering Arthur.

“You’re the king, you can’t just run away -”

“What if I bring those tiny apple pies from Cook?” Arthur asks.

Merlin was willing to annoy Arthur into performing his duties no matter how long it took, but that makes him pause.

“She makes them every morning. I bet they’re still warm,” Arthur wheedles, capitalizing on Merlin’s hesitation. “If I go right now, I might get a dozen of them.”

“...Two dozen,” Merlin says.

“You’ll have the horses saddled?” Arthur says.

Merlin runs for the door. “I’m already on my way!”

***

Twenty minutes later, they’re galloping through the woods and laughing gleefully at their escape. Leon caught them leaving the city, with a huge picnic basket on Arthur’s horse and blankets on Merlin’s. Arthur had told him they were going to a very urgent meeting with a hermit in the woods, and when Leon had begun to scowl, Arthur had asked if he doubted his king’s word. Leon couldn’t help but let them go.

It’s a lovely day. It’s not especially warm, but the sun is out and after the cold of winter, it seems perfect. There is nothing Merlin would rather be doing than riding with Arthur like this.

“This way!” Arthur says, turning his horse off the path and into the woods.

Merlin takes it back; Arthur is a horrible companion. “I’m not following you through the mud so we can get horribly lost!”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Arthur demands. When this doesn’t entice Merlin to budge, he adds, “Come on, don’t you trust me?”

Merlin reluctantly nudges his horse to follow Arthur’s through the woods. It turns out Arthur _is_ following a path - a deer path, from the looks of it. They get about five minutes into the woods before they reach a thicket too dense for the horses to enter.

“Can we turn around now?” Merlin asks, but Arthur ignores him and dismounts.

Arthur takes the picnic basket off his horse, and the blankets off of Merlin’s. He then ties both horses up, even though Merlin is still on his, arms crossed and scowling down at Arthur.

“You have five seconds to get down,” Arthur says.

Merlin stays up six, to show Arthur who’s boss. It backfires, because Arthur grabs him and drags him off the horse. They both end up tumbling onto the forest floor, with Arthur laughing and shoving Merlin’s face into the dirt and pretending he didn’t intentionally take all of the impact from the fall.

Arthur helps Merlin up. “We’re almost there,” he says, as he picks up the basket and the blankets. 

Merlin’s astonished when Arthur turns and starts leading him through the thicket _without_ shoving all of the supplies for Arthur’s picnic into Merlin’s arms for him to carry. They battle about ten feet through the thicket, and then they’re out the other side.

Merlin stops short.

They’re beside a river, at the bottom of a short waterfall. The river is wide and slow and shallow. The water is clean and clear, and everything around them is green and blue. There is a canopy of trees overhead, through which Merlin can see only a dappling of blue sky. It’s absolutely gorgeous and magical - literally, Merlin’s skin tingles pleasantly with the natural magic of the place.

“This place is amazing,” Merlin breathes.

“I’m glad you think so,” Arthur says. Merlin turns to see that Arthur’s carefully spread out a blanket and opened the basket. “Come sit,” Arthur says, patting a spot on the blanket very close to him, his cheeks slightly pink.

Arthur splits the food he’s brought between them. They eat delicious fresh bread and an entire roasted chicken, and then Arthur reveals the pies he stole from the kitchens. They’re incredibly full already, but they eat every last bite.

“Merlin?” Arthur says softly, fumbling in a pocket for something.

Merlin wipes the crumbs of the last pie off of his face. “What?”

“Er - well, happy birthday.” Arthur says, and shoves a slightly crushed bouquet of bluebells into Merlin’s hand.

Merlin is about to express his absolute astonishment that Arthur actually celebrated on his real birthday, but he’s interrupted by Arthur. Specifically, by Arthur’s lips meeting his, and a soft, hesitant first kiss.

Merlin decides this is the best birthday present of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, when Arthur returns, he watches lots of TV and learns all about the strange customs of this modern land. He then takes Merlin to the sort of restaurant with songs and noisemakers and tells them it’s Merlin’s birthday. (It’s October.) Merlin laughs until he cries, and then they share his free brownie.


End file.
